Controlled Burn
by AkamaiMom
Summary: He's never been the kind of man to walk away from a fight. Beneath his surface seethes energy, power, and emotion that he's fought his entire life to control. But now, returning to the Nathan James, his blood still boils - he's still searching for release after the events in Florida. When she approaches, he fears he might have lost it all. Tom/Rachel angst. Rated M just in case.
1. Part One

**Controlled Burn**

 _An episode tag to "Alone and Unafraid". I'm not entirely sure where this came from, but the Muse whacked me upside the head, and it practically wrote itself. I guess it was meant to be? Anyhow, I do wonder how Chandler keeps the violence that lurks beneath his skin so contained. It's obvious from the now-infamous Kitchen Fight that he's capable of much more than giving orders._

 _Also - Tom/Rachel. . . Keeping that kind of attraction contained would be a feat._

 _Regardless, this one's a bit more mature than any of my others, hence the rating. You've been warned._

-OOOOOOO-

 **Part One**

 _Her hands. Her skin. Her cool-heat._

 _Her fingers trailed along his collarbone, gentle and clean against his body. He could feel her breath against his chest, where her nimble fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt. She was studying him, her face a mess of worry, her normally-generous lips thin and tight. She spread her palm against his rib cage, probing gently at the bruise she'd found there, skimming her thumb along a long cut just under his left pectoral._

 _"Are you having trouble breathing?"_

 _But he couldn't answer her. He didn't trust himself to speak. He shook his head and flattened his palms on the P-way wall behind him. She'd gotten his entire shirt open, now, smoothing the bloody fabric away from his body. Both hands moved on him, testing his shoulders, his collarbone, where another long cut gaped, a point just above his sternum where an impressive abrasion had just begun to blossom. Gasping, she spread her hand against his chest, apparently unaware of how his muscles quivered at her touch, of how he couldn't keep himself from responding. Slowly, she explored downward, towards his hips, her fingers tracing the bruising, the redness, the swelling along his abs, his stomach, his sides._

 _Her hair swayed as she shook her head in disbelief. "Good lord, Tom - what happened to you? You're battered all over. Everywhere I look, there's a new injury."_

 _Clearing his throat, he looked away - over her head, to where a sign detailed some random function of the red-painted valve sitting below. Tom stared at the sign without really processing it. All he could see in his mind's eye were her hands on his skin, the ruined fabric of his shirt shoved away from his body, her hands tugging at the waistband of his pants as she explored a bruise on his hip. He shivered - like a terrified child in the night. When he sucked in a breath, it was nearly a sob. She'd brought him to this._

 _She raised her eyes to his, concern and compassion thick in her expression. "Are you hurting, Tom?"_

 _Her tongue flickered along her lips, and he thought he'd die._

 _Damn, yes. All over. He hurt everywhere - but not from his injuries. He ached for this - for her, for her touch, her skin against his. For the release that he'd find there. Hating himself, he leaned into her ministrations, even when he knew he needed to push her away and escape._

-OOOOOOO-

"Grab a beer, dude." Mitchell turned, whisper-yelling into Tommy's ear. "You look like a high school punk."

"I _am_ a high school punk." Tommy glanced around, surreptitiously yanking a bottle out of the ice-filled cooler next to the couch. Running his thumb along the cankered edge of the cap, he scanned the room.

The frat house was loud, and hot, and crowded. Tom hadn't intended on ending up at the party, but Mitchell had been insistent. They'd been bored, three months away from graduation and already having mentally checked out of it all. There had been a dance at the high school that night, but Tom hadn't had any desire to go. He'd told his mom that he was going to the movies with friends. Instead, he and Mitchell had driven aimlessly around town until they'd ended up at the University. It was hours past their curfews, but the noise from Frat row had drawn them like moths to a flame.

"Yeah, but you don't have to look like it." Mitchell flicked the cap of his beer off and away, taking a long draw as he caught Tommy's eye. Swiping at his lips with the back of his hand, he grinned at his best friend. "And this party looks appears like it could become absolutely epic."

Rolling his eyes, Tom gestured with the still-unopened bottle. "It's a bunch of drunk college boys."

"You're looking at this all wrong, Tommy." Mitchell grinned, winking. "It's a bunch of drunk college _girls_."

"C'mon, Mitchell. College chicks?"

His friend leaned close, gripping the back of Tom's neck with his hand. He breath smelled like the beer he'd nearly finished, and was already obviously feeling its affects. "Get your groove on, my friend. Go. Peruse. Conquer."

"Conquer."

With a laugh, Mitchell shoved his friend away. "Go, Tommy. Conquer! Be a man!" With a final, long draw from his bottle, he threw Tom a sloppy salute and disappeared into the crowd.

Sighing, Tom scanned the chaos. Bodies littered the place - a few lightweights had already passed out and had either fallen, or been deposited, in corners or on sofas. He wandered into what might have been a living room, where a spot had been cleared for dancing. A dozen or people gyrated there with varying degrees of ability. Tom watched absently, the bottle dangling from his fingertips, before turning and exploring further.

The decor of the fraternity's residence appeared to have been acquired from only the most mediocre of thrift stores. Mismatched furniture had been grouped at various locations throughout the large open common area downstairs, chairs, couches, and several well-worn, overstuffed recliners that Tom wouldn't necessarily had ever chosen to sit on. Beyond the dancers, a large rear-projection TV was playing some random horror movie, which was completely inaudible over the sound of the music blaring from a stereo on the opposite end of the room. The pool table and foosball set-up had crowded out what as supposed to have been a dining room, he supposed, and a large, once-elegant staircase stretched upwards from the entryway towards some dim regions beyond. Tom didn't need to guess what was going on upstairs - an impatient couple on the landing was demonstrating with considerable enthusiasm.

He found an empty wall and leaned back against it, watching the ebb and tide of the people around him. The fraternity's members were obvious - they were wearing matching gold t-shirts. They were also the ones refilling the coolers and steering the music and game selection. The majority of them were normal guys - drinking, hitting on the girls, playing pool or dancing. One of them, however was wearing a plastic flower lei and a coconut bra. He was louder and more animated than the rest of them were, but Tom didn't see him actively drinking. He smiled, and laughed, and schmoozed as hard as the rest of his clan. But for whatever reason, this guy seemed malignant.

Malignant. That had been one of his SAT Prep words. His mom could be happy that her money had been spent well.

Tom frowned, looking around for Mitchell. No dice - his friend had probably chatted up some Sweet Something who was available and willing and had found a quiet corner to disappear into. Shifting on his wall, Tom made another cursory scan of the crowd, but nothing or nobody appealed to him. He glanced at his watch and groaned. He was going to be in _so_ much trouble.

Pushing away from the wall, he strode past the pool table towards the kitchen. More coolers sat on the floor next to a breakfast bar, where a bastard assortment of bowls and trays held chips and snacks. The display was singularly unappetizing, but he did find a shrink-wrapped package of small water bottles on the floor next to the fridge. Depositing the beer on the counter, he grabbed some water, instead.

The game at the pool table had heated up. Three or four frat boys stood directly behind Coconuts, who was hovering near one of the players. She was tall. Tall and lithe, with long wheat-colored hair that she'd gathered back in a ponytail. Tom watched as she bent herself over the table, then worked on lining up a tricky shot, her features tight with concentration.

Stopping at the edge of the action, Tom watched as she took a deep breath and then drew the cue backwards before sending it back forwards with a perfectly timed thrust. The white ball jumped over a solid one before ricocheting off the opposite side of the table and hitting first one, then two, then three striped ones, sending them all into the different pockets. The frat boys groaned in unison, making a grand display of their upset disbelief.

The girl straightened with a sly smirk on her pretty face. She'd been watching the balls drop, but then looked upwards and caught Tom's eye. Green eyes, fringed with dark lashes. Dimples. Full, expressive lips. And then her gaze dropped down his feet and worked its way back up to his face with a languid, frank interest that made his mouth go dry.

"You cheated." Coconuts drummed his fingertips on the polished wood of the table's edge, calling her attention back to him. "Either that, or you're a player."

"You're the one that made the bet, Bentley." The girl set the cue down, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. "I can't help it that you didn't think it through first."

"Still. I made that bet in good faith. You never told me that you were a pro."

She laughed at that, walking around the table towards Coconuts. "You never asked me if I knew how to play, only if I wanted to."

Bentley's eyes narrowed, his jaw working rhythmically.

"So, anyway. You made the bet. Pay up." She extended her hand, palm up. "I believe that was a Benjamin, right?"

"I'm not paying you squat." Bentley thwacked at her hand, hitting her on the knuckles and forcing it upwards. "I don't pay cheaters."

"A hundred bucks, Bentley." She rolled the cue back and forth between the thumb and her forefinger of her left hand, bracing her right against her hip. "That was the bet."

Tom took an almost involuntary step forwards. The frat boys were inching forward, until they'd made a semi-circle behind her. With Coconuts in front of her, and the Gold Shirts behind, there was no way for her to escape. She flickered a look around her, then glared at Bentley. "Really? You think your goons are going to scare me?"

Coconuts only had to take a few more steps and he was so close to the girl that their bodies were touching. He reached out and hooked her with a hand on her lower back, yanking her towards him and grinding a bit against her hips. "You could always let me pay it off in other ways."

She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. Getting desperate, she whacked him on the side of the head with her pool cue. Coconuts grunted and faltered a bit. Taking advantage of his momentary lapse, the girl took a step backwards, pushing at Bentley's chest with both hands, managing to gain a few inches before the goons stepped up from behind to prevent her escape. One of them reached around her and snagged the cue from her hand.

Coconuts shook his head, closing in on her again. "That wasn't cool, girlfriend."

"I'm not your girlfriend." She stood warily, more fearful, now, as Bentley cupped her waist with his beefy hand.

"C'mon, chica." He had both hands on her, now, smoothing an insidious line from her back down around her rear end and back up again. He lowered his head and tried to kiss her, but she jerked backwards again, landing a solid punch against his chest. His smile lacked humor. "You're a fighter. I like it when women are feisty."

"Let me go, Bentley." She wriggled against the man, against the hands that were holding her in place. Her lips had thinned, and she was breathing in quick, short bursts. The color had drained completely from her face.

Bile rose up in Tom's throat, his hands curling into fists. He felt hot, as if a fire had been kindled somewhere deep inside him and was now scorching him from the inside. It was the same feeling he got right before the snap, when the guy on the other side of the line of scrimmage was glaring him down. Swallowing down a surge of nervous fury, he strode over to the group, stopping next to Bentley. He tried to speak, but had to clear his throat before anything came out. "Cut it out."

The man turned towards Tom, assessing him. He was shorter than Tom by an inch or so, but heftier, the arms holding the girl were thick with muscle. With an arrogant smirk, he judged, and then dismissed the newcomer. "Leave this to me, kid. I've got it covered."

But Tommy held his ground. He reached out and laid his hand on the guy's arm, wrenching it down and away from the girl's body. "Let her go."

Bentley growled, turning towards Tommy and hitting his chest with an open palm. "I said, go away, kid."

"And I said, let her go."

The girl saw her opportunity and took it, skittering sideways until she'd somehow ended up behind Tom. He felt her hand grasp his shirt, pulling him backwards. Her voice shivered against his ear. "C'mon. Let's go."

But Bentley wasn't losing lightly. He smacked Tom again, harder, crowding both Tom and the girl back towards the wall. "This isn't your business, kid. You need to leave."

"Okay. But I'll be taking her with me." Tom raised a hand and braced it against the frat guy's body. It was incongruous to feel the hard edges of the coconut bra and lei against the bundled rage of the older man. "Dude. Chill. Nobody's losing out on anything. Just let this go."

"Chill? I don't like it when snot-nosed punks interfere in my business."

Tom pressed his lips together, taking careful stock in the situation, trying to read just how angry the other man was. He was sober - he didn't smell like alcohol, at least - and beneath Tom's fingers, his body was a tight bundle of angry energy. There was nothing controlled about Bentley. Nothing reasonable. Something his father had told him once whizzed through his brain - _the one who thinks, wins_.

"Okay, then. I'll go." Tom lifted his hands in faux-surrender. Shuffling backwards, he proffered a smile and a lax sort of shrug. "Sorry. I apologize for butting in."

Bentley considered, running a hand across the stubble on his chin. For the barest of moments, it seemed like he was going to let it go, but then he shifted, settling his weight back on his right foot and swinging his right hand fist straight for Tom's head.

The girl squealed and ducked, but Tommy reacted faster, raising his left arm to block the blow before delivering one of his own. Tom was not only taller - but his reach was longer, and his fist impacted Bentley directly on the jaw, propelling his entire body backwards and towards the pool table. Bentley recovered quickly, pushing off of the table and flying back towards Tommy, who dodged to one side and hit the older man again - twice. A left to the gut and another right hook to the face.

Coconuts staggered, then wiped a spurt of blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand. Tommy stood tall, hands still fisted, his arms at his sides.

"You're going to wish you hadn't done that, kid."

"Said the old man to the kid who still hasn't taken a hit."

Bentley growled, deep in his chest, swiping at his mouth again before rushing forward. He was aiming more for a tackle than a blow, catching Tommy right between the numbers with a shoulder, while he impacted Tom's cheek and chin with a quick couple of upward punches. Tommy swore, finding himself shoved hard into the wall, his shoulders crashing against some of the framed pictures he'd perused earlier, and then hitting another with the back of his head. Coconuts used Tom's surprise to his own advantage, pinning the younger man with an arm to his neck while using his other fist to land several punches to his opponent's abdomen.

Tommy took only a second to recover. Pain radiated through his stomach and head - but he was more angry than hurt. Steadying himself on one foot, he swiped at Bentley's feet with his other leg, simultaneously punching up at the arm holding him to the wall. The other man faltered, his balance disrupted, and Tommy hit him in the face with the back of his right fist, before immediately folding his arm around Bentley's neck, tucking his opponent's head neatly under his own arm. Quickly, he seized Bentley's arm and twisted it up and over the man's back.

"Dude!"

"Son of a - "

"Bent!"

Tommy could see the Gold Shirts approaching over the back of their struggling leader. Tightening his hold, he squeezed until Bentley squeaked, and then quieted, his body making half-hearted jerking attempts to get away. Tommy's gaze flickered to where the girl was standing, several feet away and at the far end of the pool table, both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. He returned his attention to the fraternity leader's three buddies.

"Listen up, doorknob." He flexed the arm holding Bentley, who squealed again, making a half-hearted attempt to get away. "I can stand here for a while. I can squeeze a little tighter, until you pass out. At which time I'll drop you like a brick and you'll embarrass yourself in front of all of your friends. Or, you could wave your goon squad off and I'll let you go. Then, you'll stand right here, in this spot, until my new friend and I leave your stupid party." Tommy turned slightly, wrenching Bentley's head to one side and tugging a little more on the guy's arm. He looked down at his prisoner, at where the tips of his ears had gone crimson.

"Go to hell." Coconut's voice was raspy and weak. Worried and angry, his friends frowned, taking another half-step closer.

"That wasn't one of your choices, Bentley." Tom angled his free hand around and gripped the wrist just under the other man's neck. Ever so lightly, he twisted his own fist more fully into Bentley's throat. "Now, think again. I let go and you back off, or I stand here and you end up on your sorry ass in front of all your guests."

Bentley's breath came in tiny little puffs, now, and Tom could feel him fading. He was no longer struggling to get away - only to remain on his own two feet. He lifted a hand to tap at Tom's arm. "Let me go."

"You sure? You're not going to come up swinging?"

"C'mon, man." One foot slid out from under Bentley's weight, and his ears had turned a mottled pink rather than red. He was losing oxygen. His voice was little more than a whisper. "Let me go."

Tom looked again at the girl, whose expression had turned from astonishment to pleading. With a final twist at the other man's neck, Tommy suddenly loosened his grip and stepped away from the other man, who fell to his knees on the floor.

"Okay then." Tommy's hands curled into fists again, and he slowly began to make his way towards his new friend. At Bentley's gesture, the Gold Shirts backed away, and Tom made his way over to where the girl was standing. He was breathing hard, his inhalations short, deep bursts that expanded his entire rib cage and chest. His entire body was tight - wired - pulsing with adrenaline and the excitement of battle. It was how he felt right after a football play, or after his leg of a swim team relay. Only, it was better. His fists hurt, and his stomach had surely started to bruise, and his jaw ached where Bentley had landed a lucky blow. But even with the pain, a rush of something new had made its way through his body. He felt - transformed. He felt powerful. And he wanted more.

The girl stood there, staring at him, her face radiating an odd expression - one that he'd never seen before. Tommy was surprised when she took his hand and led him out of the dining area, past the rest of the drunk, oblivious party-goers, and out into the cool of the night.

They walked, quiet, past a row of frat houses, and a few dormitories, around a corner and towards a slightly more modern apartment building. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a metal ring when they got to her door, finding her key with one hand, the fingers of her other hand still gripped in his. The key slid into her lock silently - but she didn't open the door. Instead, she let it sit there, the ring dangling from the knob.

Hesitating, she turned to face him. Even in the dim glow of the street lights, she was beautiful. Her hair had blown over her shoulder, and her eyes were bright with something that Tom wasn't certain he knew how to interpret. She chewed nervously at her lower lip with with those perfect little teeth before stepping close. "Thank you for what you did back there."

"The guy was a jerk."

"He was." She nodded, reaching up to touch lightly at his face, at where a bruise was surely coloring his cheekbone. "But you were amazing. Stupid, probably, but amazing."

Tom's eyes drifted closed as the girl probed a little at his cheek. Her touch was feather-light, tender, and gentle. Her skin was cool against his. "I guess I'm not too bright - "

But he couldn't finish the thought. She'd tipped up on her toes, fitting her lips to his, her hand curving around the back of his neck, her body pressing against his own. He was still tense, still throbbing with the after effects of the fight, still completely wound up, and the kiss fed his energy. His arm threaded around her body, his hand fitting itself to her lower back, to the swell of her hip, pulling her towards him, more firmly against his body.

Open, hot, deep. Closed eyes, hands spreading and kneading, thigh to thigh, stomach to stomach. He was fueled by the fight, by his previous boredom, by anger and excitement, and victory. He was young and stupid and ornery, and this beautiful girl - for whatever reason - wanted him. He pulled her closer, teased her lips open further, groaned deep in his throat when her hand tugged at his shirt and found the skin beneath. Tommy felt her withdraw for a moment as she turned the key in the lock. He felt her hand grip his again - more firmly this time, as she pulled him across her threshold and closed the door behind them.

-OOOOOOO-

He made his way downstairs around noon - bleary-eyed and sated. His little brother had already claimed the TV and was playing some sort of video game, while his sister had a passel of books and papers organized in neat piles all over the breakfast table. Crossing past the kitchen island, he opened the refrigerator door, taking out a gallon of milk. It was nearly empty.

"You could put a shirt on, Tommy." She'd always been bossy. She got it from their mother. His sister glanced up at him and rolled her eyes as he unscrewed the lid off the jug and took a swig. "Gross. And by the way, what happened to you?"

Tom looked down at his abdomen, at the bruises that had appeared there. "Mitchell and I were fooling around."

"And your face, too?"

"He got lucky."

As usual, his little sister's expression displayed her opinion of him - and it wasn't good. "Mom's gonna be pissed."

"She'll get over it." Tommy took another long draw of milk, finishing off what was left in the jug. Sliding the empty container on the counter, he stepped towards the island and grabbed an apple out of the bowl there. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Your mother is at the grocery store." The new voice came from the hallway, and Tom turned to see his father standing there. He was a large man - not as tall as Tom, but powerfully built. His stance wasn't easy or relaxed. He was worked up about something. Giving Tom a meaningful glare, he pointed at his first born son. "We need to talk. Back porch. Now."

Tom stared at the apple in his hand momentarily before chancing a look at his sister. Her face was now a perfect mixture of concern and triumph. Well, at least she might care if he didn't survive whatever his father had planned for him. He raised his brow and gave her a cocky little salute. "If I die, you can have my stereo."

"I want your room."

Tommy grinned. It hurt like the devil to do so, pain shooting up his cheek and into his temple, but he refused to show discomfort. "Only if I'm really dead. If I'm a vegetable, you're out of luck."

"Jerk."

But she didn't mean it. Setting his apple on the counter, Tom turned, padding barefoot across the hallway and through the family room. White-washed French doors led out onto the patio, and Tom paused to look out the glass for a moment, watching as his father adjusted his position on the porch steps. When had he gotten old? Tom couldn't ever remember his father looking anything but big and gruff and strong, but now - he seemed tired. His hair had started to go gray. He had a pallor to his skin that the son hadn't noticed before - something less than hale and hearty and well. Taking a deep breath, Tom opened the door and headed out, closing the door quietly behind him.

His dad didn't look back, patting the step next to him instead in silent invitation. Tom took it, the wood of the porch cool beneath his feet. It was a brisk day - breezy and cool. Lowering himself to sit next to his father, he mused absently that he probably should have put a shirt on after all.

"You had a visitor this morning."

"Oh?" That truly surprised him. He hadn't been expecting anyone.

"Lorna."

"Who?"

His father turned to him, his frown expressing more than anger - he was disappointed. "Lorna. She came to return your wallet. Apparently, you left it in her room early this morning. She thought you might need it for work or whatever."

Ah. _Damn_. Tom looked down at his feet. There was really nothing to say to that. He hadn't realized until that moment that he'd never bothered to learn her name. Lorna. It suited her.

A few hours before, he'd glanced back at her as she'd slept, her hair a glorious tumble around her bare shoulders, the early morning light catching the gold in the strands. She'd stirred as he'd buttoned up his jeans, her eyes opening with a blurry sort of satiation that perfectly matched his own. He'd grabbed his shirt off the end of the bed and then bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Tommy." She'd reached up and skimmed her fingertips along his injured cheek again. "It's never been that way before."

He'd smiled, kissing her again. "For me, either."

Because he'd never done it before. But he wasn't willing to expound on that to her - this near-stranger with whom he'd shared everything and nothing. Instead, he'd warmed her palm with his lips and then muttered something in parting before heading for the door.

He wasn't sure how he'd felt about it then, and he wasn't sure now. Mitchell would be standing on rooftops trumpeting his triumph, but Tom - Tom wanted to keep it close.

Jed's voice brought him back to the present. "She was expecting to leave it with one of your room mates. She was more than a little surprised to find out that you're still in high school."

"Yeah."

"I take it that she's the reason that you completely ignored your curfew and got home after the paper had already been delivered?"

Tom watched as a ladybug crawled across a knot in the wood of the step his feet were resting on. He related to the bug just now, wondering when a foot would arrive to squash him. "She's part of it."

"That's a hell of a shiner you've got there. And your ribs are hurting, too?"

The ladybug took flight, and Tom was instantly jealous of an insect. Oh, to be able to fly away. "I took a few hits last night."

"Do I want to know the whole story?"

"Probably not." Tom tilted his head to look over at his Old Man. "Would it be enough to tell you that I won?"

"It'll have to be, won't it?" Jed Chandler frowned. "It's not like you talk with me anymore."

"You don't talk to me, either, Dad." He watched his father frown again. "So, we're kind of even there."

The Old Man's jaw clenched a few times while he worked that through. "Well, I hope that one of you was smart enough to use - "

Tom cut him off. "She had something."

"Good." He nodded. "That's good."

Inside the house, something landed with a distinct 'clunk', followed by a muffled epithet. A dog erupted into furious barking down the street that only lasted for a second or two, and from out front came the sounds of kids on bikes. Tom flattened his right hand, making a rough examination of his knuckles. He hadn't felt it last night, but they were raw, and bruised. Small cuts had opened up in the creases, and it hurt to bend his fingers. He made a fist, then flexed his hand out again, Pain, then ease. Pain - ease. It was something else to concentrate on while his father studied him.

"I know you think I'm too old to understand. I'm sure that you didn't go out looking for a fight last night - or whatever else happened. Maybe you did. I don't know." Jed's voice was gruff, but calm. "But I was that guy, once. You're looking for an outlet. You're restless. You're hungry for something to do. For some way to feel alive."

"Dad - "

"Let me finish, Son." The Old Man didn't look at him, he merely gestured into the open air, palm down, as if trying to quiet down the world. "I'm not the best father in the world. I'm not even at the top of the pile. I've been gone most of your life on deployments or training. I've been out there doing things that I can't and won't talk about. And I've done some good. Some really damned good stuff. But I've had to do things that I'm not proud of, too."

Tom pressed his lips together and leaned forward, his forearms braced against his knees.

"Violence serves a purpose. Lorna told me what happened at the party. How you came to her rescue. How you beat up that guy." Jed shook his head, scratching at his chin. "She's a nice girl."

"I don't know her that well."

"Obviously." He sighed, shooting his son a speculative look. "But believe me when I tell you that I know you pretty damned well. You're like me, heaven help you. Back in the day, before I met your mother, I was hot-headed and wild. It was that whole 'alive' thing, you know? The harder you hit- the harder you _get_ hit - the more you live. And then you feel like some kind of damned warrior - invincible. It's the violence, right? You learn to like it, and then you need it - you feed on it. You crave it. And anything that gives you the same rush will become a substitute for it. So, you'll get banged up in a fight and have all this energy floating around, and some sweet young thing smiles at you, and you follow her home. You follow her wherever she'll take you, and you'll do - things. You use up all of the rest of that energy. You'll use _her_. And afterwards, you'll leave her there alone. And you won't ever know her name."

Tom closed his eyes against the sharp pang welling up in his throat. This is what shame felt like, then. This was regret.

"Sex and violence are two sides of the same coin. They're both raw and real and visceral. Both of them can make you feel like you're at the top of the world, or at the bottom of the crap-heap. You're a man, now Tommy. You've grown into one while I haven't been looking. And you're tall and handsome as the devil and fearless. You're about to go out into the world - and I think that you'll be all right. But if there's one thing that I want you to know, it's that you shouldn't ever use violence or sex because you're bored, or restless, or angry. Don't substitute either of those things for real life. Don't leave a lot of Lornas in your wake, Son."

"I haven't, Dad." Tom was surprised at the tone of his own voice. Determined, sincere - earnest. He curled his hands into fists again. "I won't."

"I believe you." And Jed's tone showed that he did. "There are a lot of guys out there who just kind of bounce through life. They go to school and they go to work and they come home to their wives or girlfriends or whoever and they wouldn't ever even dream of punching the crap out of some lowlife frat punk. Maybe they don't know how to fight, or maybe they're just not built the same way you and me are. Your little brother will happily beat the snot of out some Mario Brother doofus or a dragon in some made up dungeon, but I can't see him taking out a bully."

"He'd probably file an injunction and then debate him to death."

Jed smiled at that. "He IS a brainiac, isn't he?"

"That, he is." Tom grinned. It hurt - pain shooting up his jaw and towards his eye.

"The thing is, you've got to learn some control, or you're going to be wild-balling it around the world and never find a spot to land. Guys like us need to keep a tight rein on ourselves. We can do a lot of good, or we can let the violence eat us."

Tom nodded. "Yes, Sir."

For a few long moments, they merely sat there, the breeze flowing around them, the sounds of the day wafting in and around the yard. From the front of the house came the unmistakable sound of his mother's car - the muffler had long-since needed repairing. It puttered to a stop, and the door squeaked open.

"I guess she's back with the groceries."

"Probably."

Jed groaned a little, rising to his feet. "I should ground you, or something. You should be in trouble."

Tom clenched his teeth.

"But I think we understand each other now, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Okay, then." Jed stepped back onto the porch, reaching out to grasp the handle of the door. Opening it, he paused, then looked back at his son for a beat before shoving the door open wide and motioning towards the interior. "Well, then, let's go help your mother."

 _To be continued. . ._


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

Something jolted him back to awareness.

Tom's eyes flew wide, focusing - remembering where he was. They'd landed. The helo's engines were winding down with a weary kind of whine that reminded Tom of a dentist's drill. Grimacing, Chandler flicked the clasp on his straps, and prepared to stand. Damn, he hurt. He took a moment to tense and release his muscles in an effort to ease the stiffness in his joints and limbs. Around him, his teams gathered themselves and their things. Green picked up the tainted bear from where he'd stowed it under his jump seat, so seemingly innocuous compared to the rifle he held in the other hand. The man who Tom presumed to be POTUS remained seated, arms folded stubbornly across his chest, his face a mess of fear and anger. He hadn't said a single word since they'd lifted off. The wounded scientist, on the other hand, had started whining again.

Complications. Sighing, Tom found a window and glared out of it for a few moments. He wasn't sure what had happened. He remembered the mad dash towards the helo - the gunfire barking out all around him. He recalled jumping into the back of the helicopter, getting situated, exchanging information with Tex and Green. After a while, though, it hadn't done any good. No matter how loudly he'd yelled, nobody could hear anything over the roar of the rotors and engines. He'd zoned out, or perhaps he'd slept. After the events of the past few days, his entire body - hell, his entire soul - wanted nothing more than to sleep and to forget.

He swiped at his chin with his palm, encountering stubble. He felt dirty, and stank of sweat and gunpowder. And something else - the tangy metallic stench of the blood that dried on his clothes and skin. He needed a shower. A shave. Food. Sleep, maybe, if he could relax enough for that. Unlikely-because deep inside him, a torrent still surged. A few moments' rest in the chopper hadn't quelled the energy that seethed within him. If anything, his trip down memory lane had made it worse. Swearing softly, he caught another glimpse of his past - the pool table, the frat guy's blood on his fist. The girl, tangled in her cheap department store sheets, her skin warmed by his.

 _If he were to be honest. . . Damn it to hell._

He wanted something far different from sleep. Release. Mindless, simple, complete. It'd been months since he'd lost himself in something other than the mission. Nearly half a year since he'd given in to baser instincts, since he'd ceded control. Since he'd lain entangled with his wife and felt complete ease. His eyes closed again on that thought, grappling with his own needs and those of the mission. Breathing deeply, he fought for control. He smelled blood again, his nostrils flaring.

Shower. Shave. Eat. Sleep. Then, perhaps, if he were lucky, he would feel human again.

Not that humanity had endeared itself to him in Florida. Tom's gaze flickered across the way to where Niels slumped on his perch. His skin was ashen, his hair lank and greasy. He'd whimpered and cried, begging for medical attention until around fifteen minutes into the flight, when Nolan had offered Niels a knife and told him to get busy with dying, if that's what he was fixing to do. That had ended the whining.

Nobody could shut somebody up better than Tex. He was probably the only person on the Nathan James that Tom would ever call "friend". Although there were many people on the ship for whom he felt great respect and on whom he relied on a daily basis, there really wasn't anyone that he could just relax with. Be easy. Confide in. In the past, he would have fired up his laptop and recorded a message to Darien when he'd needed to talk.

Now. . .

Tom grimaced. Looking down, he caught sight of his hands. Torn, bruised, still bloody. One of his knuckles bulged oddly - he'd broken or sprained something. Experimentally, he straightened his fingers, hissing a little at the pain that shot up his back of his hand, through his wrist and towards his elbow.

Movement to his left caught his attention.

Slattery had stopped just beyond the helo's landing pad, directing a pair of sailors towards the helo door with a stretcher. Tom waited for the medical crew to strap Niels on the thing before following Tex down the steps onto the deck of his ship. Over his shoulder, he watched as Burk and Bivas took charge of POTUS, managing his movements inside the fuselage of the helo.

Dollars to donuts, that man was going to be a problem.

"No offense, Captain, but you look like hell."

Glaring over at Mike for a moment, Tom raised a brow. "Then I look considerably better than I feel."

"Tough one?" Slattery took a backwards step towards the P-way, making sure of his CO's direction before pivoting and falling into step.

Tom sighed. "You could say that."

Mike threw a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the helo. "Who's that?"

"Apparently, he's the President." Glancing back towards the chopper, he watched briefly as Burk and Bivas struggled to respectfully corral their charge.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding." Tom leaned back against the wall of the P-way. "Jeffrey Michener."

"I don't recognize the name."

"Cabinet member. HUD."

Mike's eyes grew wide as he waggled his head slowly from side to side. "Nope. Nothing."

"He's an Immune."

"No crap?"

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Chandler leaned his head back against the wall of the P'way. "He'll take some work."

"Okay." Mike crossed his arms across his chest. "I talked with Green. He showed me the bear."

"They were giving them to little kids. Ramsey and his people are systematically killing the survivors in order to make way for their cult. I never could have imagined this, Mike."

"I sent Tex in to tell Doctor Scott. I thought she deserved to know."

"He'll break it to her right."

"She needs to know, regardless how it's broken to her." Mike rocked forwards onto the balls of his feet. Impatience and frustration in his stance. "She needs to understand that we're dealing with more than just the search for a cure, now."

He was right. Rachel did need to know what else they were up against. But he knew what the news was going to do to her. Knew just as surely as he stood there in the dim hallway that this kind of evil would be hard for her to take. For a moment, he saw her kneeling next to her dead friend, her hazel eyes fixed on the hole in his forehead. She'd lost something then. Not anything as blas as innocence - Chandler was fairly sure she'd had the blinders lifted from her eyes early in life. But she'd been changed as she'd stood, as she'd turned to him. Her words had sent chills down his spine.

 _"Kill them."_

Tom's jaw worked a few times before he could speak again. "They're organized, Mike. Much more than you'd imagine."

"Our country's been without a leader for months, now. It was only a matter of time before somebody like Ramsey would come along and take power."

"He's got something. These people believe what he's selling."

As if on cue, Burk and Bivas rushed past them with the President, Michener's complaints echoing down the hall.

The XO sighed heavily. "Our Commander in Chief doesn't seem to be too happy to be with us, does he?"

"Well, that's something we're going to have to change."

Mike's eyes widened, watching absently as the trio disappeared around a corner. "Won't be easy, if he really is one of them."

"This country needs a leader almost as much as it needs the cure. Ramsey was going to use the President to win the hearts and minds of America, and that's exactly what we're going to do."

Lifting his brows, Slattery cast another look down the hall in the direction Michener had gone. Straightening, he fixed a skeptical look on his CO. "Let's hope it works."

Tom stepped away from his wall, ignoring the way his entire body ached at the movement. "It has to. We've run out of options."

Mike made an odd, uncertain shrug, his lips thin, his jaw set. "You should probably go get cleaned up, Sir. I'll head to the infirmary to check on the scientist."

Tom glanced down at the blood dried to his shirt, his pants, and his skin. Unbelievably, he'd nearly forgotten about it. When had it become status quo for him to be covered in another man's blood? He stifled a sigh and nodded. "I'll catch up with you later."

The XO had already made it halfway down the P-way, but he nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement before he turned the corner and disappeared. Tom paused for a breath before aiming himself in the same direction, down into the Nathan James towards his stateroom and some privacy. If he were smart, he'd get checked out in the infirmary, but the way he was feeling - well, that wouldn't have been a stellar plan. They needed Niels alive, after all.

He'd zoned out during the helo ride back to the ship, but once he'd come to, it had all come back. The anger, the fear, the disbelief of what exactly was happening in his country. The frantic, uncaged brutality that had overcome him in the kitchen as he'd plunged forks, knives, and bullets into the enemy. Over the years, he'd become an exemplar of self control and steady strength. It was the only way to climb through the ranks as he had - to be a pillar when all around you people wanted to crumble. So, he'd learned to absorb it all, to store it away, to deny himself the release of losing his temper, of losing control.

Between deployments, the restlessness had found outlets. Working at home, fixing loose doors and shutters, cleaning the gutters, coaching Sam and Ashley in Little League and soccer. He'd found his center again in the long nights relearning his wife's form, or in a long, mad run through the woods. He'd gone hunting with his Dad, or jumped into the ring with a stranger at the gym and gone a few rounds.

Looking downward, Tom realized that he'd clenched his hands into fists. Painful, tight, throbbing - he'd reopened a cut on one of his knuckles and his own blood ran fresh down his finger towards the grimy nail. He needed to go shower. He needed to go have Doc Rios give him a once-over. He needed to find a moment in which to find his control.

But damned if all he wanted to do was beat the hell out of the sniveling little bastard who'd just been carried into the medical suites.

Control. Tom lowered his eyelids for several long beats, shutting out the noise of the helo crew at work to his right, and the random noises coming from the P-way at his left. He could hear his own heart, feel his pulse in his hand as the blood dripped down his finger. For some reason, that helped him regain a modicum of self-possession. He allowed the pain to overcome him-to supersede the anger. Concentrating, he embraced the exhaustion he'd tamped down, letting it settle in his shoulders, draping over him like a quilt. Opening his eyes, he exhaled a ragged breath and then headed towards his own quarters.

Right, straight, then left before transiting a long straight-of-way before turning right again. Down, left, down again. Over the knife-edge, down another long P-way towards Officer Country. He'd just made the final turn when he heard her.

"Captain!"

He didn't want to stop, but did anyway. Didn't want to turn, but found himself pivoting just enough to see her making her way towards him in her forthright way - as if she were waging a full-frontal assault rather than walking down a hall.

"Have you spoken to Tex?"

The bears. She'd been told.

Tom nodded, passing the tip of his tongue along the inner crease of his lips. "Lieutenant Green assured me that they've all been destroyed."

"That's what Tex said." She stopped a few feet away from him, her expression just a little wild. "He also mentioned a cult of some sort?"

"People who are naturally immune. They've been gathering in various parts of the country. Possibly the world. They're planning on waiting until the survivors are all dead and then forming a master race."

Rachel shook her head, her hair making waves down her back and shoulders. "Atrocious. Horrific. I'm in shock. I'm - "

"Rachel," Sighing, Tom lifted a hand to quiet her. "The toys have been obliterated. I don't know how far we got with the Immunes and their command structure, but we destroyed the bears. We also believe that we've destroyed their ability to manufacture any more."

Her eyes grew wide. "But who would do such a thing? Who would spread the virus on purpose?"

"There are evil people in the world, Rachel." He shrugged, knowing even as he did it that the motion was lame. That he was exposing himself - she was perceptive enough to read his body, to know that he was hiding something. "What else can I possibly say that you don't already know?"

"Tom - " She stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?"

"I'm just tired, Rachel."

"No - you're hurt." Reaching out, she captured his chin in her fingers, forcing his head to one side. "You're bruised. Look at that. Your cheek. And your jaw."

"Dr. Scott - "

"And judging by the way you're favoring your arm, you've got some bruised rubs - possibly broken - " Her hands dropped from his face towards his shirt, where she started working on the buttons of his filthy shirt. "Is all of this blood yours?"

"Not all of it."

But she was already making that discovery for herself.

 _Her hands. Her skin. Her cool heat_.

Her fingers trailed along his collarbone, gentle and clean against his body. He could feel her breath against his chest, where her nimble digits were making short work of the closures there. She was studying him, her face a mess of worry, her normally-generous lips thin and tight. She spread her palm against his rib cage, probing gently at the bruise she'd found there, skimming her thumb along a long cut just under his left pectoral.

"Are you having trouble breathing?"

But he couldn't answer her. He didn't trust himself to speak. He shook his head and flattened his palms on the P-way wall behind him. She'd gotten his entire shirt open, now, smoothing the bloody fabric away from his body. Both hands, now, testing his shoulders, his collarbone, where another long cut gaped, a point just above his sternum where an impressive abrasion had just begun to blossom. Gasping, she spread her hand against his chest, apparently unaware of how his muscles tightened at her touch, of how he couldn't keep himself from responding. Slowly, she explored downward, towards his hips, her fingers tracing the bruising, the redness, the swelling along his abs, his stomach, his sides.

Her hair swayed as she shook her head in disbelief. "Good lord, Tom - what happened to you? You're battered all over. Everywhere I look, there's a new injury."

Clearing his throat, he looked away - over her head, to where a sign detailed some random function of the red-painted valve sitting below. Tom stared at the sign without really processing it. All he could see in his mind's eye were her hands on his skin, the ruined fabric of his shirt shoved away from his body, her hands tugging at the waistband of his jeans as she explored a bruise on his hip. He shivered - like a terrified child in the night. When he sucked in a breath, it was nearly a sob. She'd brought him to this.

She raised her eyes to his, concern and compassion thick in her expression. "Are you hurting, Tom?"

Her tongue flickered along her lips, and he thought he'd die.

Damn, yes. All over. He hurt everywhere - but not from his injuries. He ached for this - for her, for her touch, her skin against his. For the release that he'd find there. Hating himself, he leaned into her ministrations, even when he knew he needed to push her away and escape.

But she'd already retreated a bit from him, leaning back on her heels as she surveyed the damage rapidly becoming more and more evident on his skin. "Tom, I don't know what to say."

His throat felt tight, but he pushed through it. "Go back to the lab. I just need a shower and some rest."

"You need medical attention."

"Rachel - "

"Damn it, Tom. Be reasonable." Leaning into him, she grasped a handful of his shirt and tugged at him. "Dr. Rios is working on everyone else. Let me help you."

They were only a few yards from his stateroom, and she made short work of dragging him there and swinging the hatch open. She steered him into a chair, reaching out and swinging the hatch shut behind them.

"Where's your first aid box?"

He tried to rise, but she glared him back down.

"Tom?"

"Cupboard." He nodded towards his personal quarters, and the bathroom there, and then watched as she retrieved the kit. She was a woman tightly wound, efficient in each and every movement. He tried not to wonder if she was that way in all of her activities, or if she knew how to let loose of her control and indulge in languor. Desperation arose within him to be there to see it as it happened. To watch her surrender to need. To see if she could give herself to a passion for something besides science.

Nosing around his sink, she grabbed a washcloth. Turning on the faucet, she wet the cloth, wringing it one-handed before shutting off the water. It took a few steps to return to where he sat, plunk the kit down on the table beside him, and get to work on the blood staining his skin.

"Whose blood is this, then?"

"They were guards."

"They?"

"There were a few of them." No need to get into particulars, right? Her lovely mouth had already tightened into a frown.

"Were?"

The cloth felt cool against his face, and he steeled himself against the sensation as she ran it over his jaw and scrubbed at the blood that had dried on his neck. Her left hand had risen to cup his right cheek as she worked. She was everywhere - her hands, her hair, her heat, her legs touching him. Closing his eyes, he tried to pretend that she was someone - _anyone_ \- other than who she was. That he hadn't imagined at odd moments, alone in the dark, about having her hands on his body. That her touch wasn't having the effect that it was. Forcing his mind away from her, he remembered her question and found an answer to it. "They're corpses now."

"Were they part of the crew that killed Julius?" She'd traveled lower, scrubbing at the carnage left on his chest, careful around his injuries, her hands simultaneously capable and tender. Stepping closer, she tilted his chin up with a finger, working at the gore that had landed just under his ear. As she worked, she bent just enough that her t-shirt gaped away from her body.

Swearing inwardly, Tom squeezed his eyes closed.

 _Softness. Warmth. Welcome. He could smell her soap - something flowery, mixed with what he knew was just Rachel herself. Her skin was smooth and supple, even in shadow._

What had she asked him? Julius. Dr. Hunter. Tom spoke through clenched teeth. "It's possible."

"Then they deserved it." She shifted, and he felt her legs on either side of his left thigh as she tugged his shirt down his shoulders to peer at his back. "I don't see any bruising back there. You must have gotten lucky." Deftly, she slid the soiled fabric down his arm and off, drawing it around his back and taking it off completely. She hesitated, perusing the shirt in disgust before tossing it onto the floor near the sink. Returning her attention to Tom, she caught his gaze, studying him for a beat before continuing with her ministrations. "Either that, or you're frighteningly good at what you do."

He couldn't answer, trying to will his body to behave. He screwed his eyes shut again, clenching his jaw. She'd moved down his chest, soothing her way past the bruises, the abrasions, and the cuts as she scrubbed him clean. Clinical. She was being clinical. She couldn't possibly know the chaos that her touch wreaked within him, how her breath against his forehead, her hair skimming along his shoulder, and the subtle movements of her thighs straddling his knee ignited him. Could she?

The words reverberated through his head. _Doctor. Clinical. Doctor._

But then the washcloth was gone, and it was just her fingers, her hands, the lithe feel of her body around, and over, and against him. She made her way down his form in a thorough exploration, as if she were memorizing each muscle - learning each curve and plane of his body. She prodded and kneaded, making tiny, sad little noises in the back of her throat as she discovered all the places where he hurt, where he'd _been_ hurt. Her palms skimmed along his abdomen, down towards his jeans, pausing, then landing upon the button just below his navel.

She'd bent nearer. Her hair tangled with the hair on his chest, her breath warmed his cheek. He suddenly knew, even without seeing her, that she was indeed on the edge with him - that her examination had long-since graduated past the medical and into something far, far more personal. But those nimble fingers lowered further, working at the button, the closure blessedly made more difficult by his seated position. The muscles in his abdomen tensed, then quivered, but she seemed oblivious - or determined.

Her fingers slid between the denim and his skin -

It would take a single moment - just a few steps - and he'd have her pressed deep into the mattress in the room behind them. And judging by the way she'd slowed her movements - by how shallow her breathing had become, how her shoulders rose and lowered - by how her touch had morphed from something analytic into something exploratory -

She'd go with him.

 _He who thinks, wins._ His father's words echoed through his hazed mind. _Think._

"No." Rough, more a growl than a word. Unbidden, his hands found her wrists, forcing her hands to be still. "Stop."

Her face was close - too close. Her expression shuttered, her eyes darker than normal, her lashes feathering on her cheekbones. She was trembling, and her pulse raced beneath the pads of his fingers. "Tom, you're injured - "

"I'll be fine."

"Please let me help you."

So beautiful. Strong, intelligent. So impossibly perfect. Did she know how she affected him? How her fingers burned along his body? He could hardly breathe - couldn't inhale because it filled him with _her_. Couldn't stir because every movement brought her closer to him. He couldn't escape the feel and smell and heat of her.

She twisted her arms, breaking free from his grasp. Lifting one hand to graze along his face, his jaw, his cheek, Rachel smoothed his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb, her fingers tangling in the short coarseness of his hair even as her other hand traced a torturous trail up his arm to rest on his shoulder.

He raised his face to hers, lost in the depths of her expression. They were close - too close - somehow her body had come into full contact with his, and his hands were resting on her hips. It actually hurt not to let them drape lower, to force himself not to explore her as she'd done him. He swallowed back the need that surged inside him. "This isn't helping."

"Tom." She faltered a bit, struggling for control just as he was. "What do you want?"

 _Heat. Cool. Tumble-down-hair-curtain. Lips - tongues. Hands and limbs. Forgetting and awakening. Slick, slow. Tangled togetherness. Softness. Release, ease. Rest. Her._

What did he want? Her. But not like this. Not when he was restless and still itching for payback. Not when she'd be a convenience. An outlet.

"Lorna. No more Lornas." Nonsensical, his words meant nothing, and he knew it even as he watched her expression fall in confusion. Gathering his resolve, he pushed her gently away from him, putting blessed distance between them.

She frowned slightly, shuffling further backwards, until she'd crowded up against the wall near the entrance to his personal quarters. "I'm sorry?"

"Rachel. Just go."

"But - "

"Please." His voice broke, as it had that day on his back porch so long ago. "Just go."

Her hands spread against her thighs, and she rasped her palms against the denim of her jeans for a second or two before straightening. "I was just trying to help."

Tom rose, aware of his bare torso, of the still-unopened medical kit on the table next to him, of the washcloth that lay on the floor between them. Aware to the soles of his feet of the damaged look on her face, of how confused she was, and how hurt. Painfully aware of the restlessness still surging through him, and the visceral need that was settling in his gut. "I know. And I appreciate it."

"Well, all right then." Nodding, she made another long, slow perusal of his features before turning towards the door and skirting the room towards it. She paused at the hatch. "I'm sorry for whatever I've done to offend you."

"It's not you, Rachel." Tom realized he'd made a fist again - fresh blood burgeoned brightly from his torn knuckle. "I'm just not in a good place right now. I need to be alone."

She pressed her lips tightly together - so much so that her cheeks dimpled even without a smile. "Well, when you're ready, come find me in my lab. There are more things to discuss."

"I'll do that."

"And you need to go see Dr. Rios. You'll need more care."

"Yes, ma'am."

She pivoted, opening the hatch, then hesitating again as she stepped over the knife-edge. She angled her face in his direction without looking at him. "It's lonely here. We are completely surrounded at all times, living in each other's pockets every moment of every day, yet we still can't forge the kinds of relationships that might offer some true intimacy. Not just physical intimacy - that's part of it, but not all. In these close confines, there's no way to be unguarded with each other. It feels like we hold all our emotions and needs inside, and they're festering in there like an explosive just waiting to be discharged. And it festers. Things get complicated, don't they? You're not sure what's what."

He didn't have anything easy to say to that, so he merely waited for her to continue.

"I understand, Captain. Restlessness. The anger and frustration. The need for another human being to need you - and not in a professional way. The need to be touched - to touch. We aren't meant to be solitary. To live so close and yet so very apart. I've been feeling the same things, lately. Sometimes, I wish - " she faltered, her eyes flickering to him and then nearly immediately away again. "It'd be nice to have a break from the Apocalypse, wouldn't it? Just for a few, moments, to be able to forget. To be able to feel again."

He couldn't speak without betraying himself. Nodding, Tom watched her until she'd glanced over at him again. Yearning. Languishing hunger. A need so profound that he could feel it burrow through him in the moment before she looked out into the P-way again. If only - _if only_.

"Anyway. When you're ready. I'll be waiting." The corner of her mouth lifted, and she cast him a last glance - a little contemplative, a little sad. Then she was gone, the hatch clanking shut behind her.

Ready for what? To talk with her about the Immunes and their goals? Or ready for something else? Tom's eyes drifted closed again, recklessly wondering exactly how long it would be before he lost his resolve and gave in. How much longer he could steady himself against the rush that he felt whenever he saw her, heard her, or sensed her. Like a fool, he thought about how her hands had felt on his skin not so many moments before, and wondered how it would be if he were to succumb, to accept her ministrations and allow them to become something more. His mouth went dry, a burst of sensation blazed through his body and his soul.

He smelled blood again, tangy and metallic in his nostrils. Looking down, he noticed droplets splattered on his floor, the fresh blood still flowing freely from his injured knuckle. He sighed, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling as if making a plea to the heavens. For what kind of salvation, he had no clue.

He needed a shower. Clean clothes. Food. Sleep, maybe, if he could relax enough for that. But he knew he wouldn't be able to. He could still feel her fingers on his skin, her breath in his hair, her body pressed to his. Through his body still coursed the heat, the frenetic energy of the fight, and the visceral need he'd been harboring for what seemed like years. His entire life had been this - a tightly choreographed dance between maintaining control and allowing himself to give in to the raw power that always seemed just about to explode from within him.

With a guttural sigh, Tom turned, avoiding the blood on the floor. He'd clean it later. For now, he'd get cleaned up. He'd shave. He'd eat. He'd get dressed in his digis, he'd straighten his name tag. He'd concentrate on tamping down the fire licking at his core and regaining what little control he had left. He had a ship to run, and a President to question, and a sub to sink.

When he was ready, he'd find her.

For now, though, he had a world to save.


End file.
